Altaïr returned to Masyaf without ceremony.
The fortress remained unchanged, as it always did—stone set upon stone, unmoved by victories or failures alike. He passed through its gates and into the library, where Al Mualim sat at his table, hands resting calmly before him.
"You've done well Altair, and I'm confident this is but the first of many successes which await you," says Al Mualim.
"Who's next to my blade," Altaïr asks.
"You look like in a hurry my child. Killing is not what makes you a better Assassin but the learning you take from it," says Al Mualim.
"Did Tamir tell you something, I have been told he was behaving different recently."
"No, he did not, but he spoke to me as if there's something I must know. Is there something I need to know master?" says Altaïr.
"Altair your biggest failure was born out of knowing too much. If I choose to withold information, it is only to ensure you do not make the same mistake a second time," says Al Mualim.
"It will remain this way until you have learned your lesson. Still you have performed competently. I reward you with a higher rank and some weapons of yours," says Al Mualim.
Altaïr listened in silence as the Mentor continued.
"Go to Acre or Jerusalem, there are many in both the cities who require your attention. The bureau leaders can tell you more about what needs to be done."
With that, Altaïr turned away.
His rank was restored. His sword returned to his hand, the Hidden Blade once more resting beneath his sleeve.
He chose Acre.
The ride south took four days.
The land between Masyaf and Acre bore the scars of war—villages abandoned, roads watched by soldiers, fields left untended. When Acre finally came into view, it felt heavier than the other cities he had known.
This was not merely a city.
It was a fortress.
Acre had endured siege after siege, its massive walls standing as the last great stronghold of the Crusaders in the Holy Land. Once captured by Saladin, it had been reclaimed during the Third Crusade and now served as the Crusader capital. Power ruled openly here. Faith justified cruelty. Though trade still flowed through its harbors, peace had never returned.
Altaïr entered quietly.
Broken homes lined the streets, their doors repaired too many times to count. Guards stood at every major crossing, their presence constant, watchful. Doctors and scholars moved freely, protected by authority rather than compassion. Acre was not loud like Damascus—it was rigid, tense, controlled.
Altaïr slowed near a stone bench where two guards spoke in hushed tones. He sat beside them, lowering his gaze, blending easily.
"You hear about Elaine?" says the first guard.
"The archer who guards the eastern wing?"
"Poor bastard's brother caught an arrow in the throat. Doubt he'll last the night," replies the second.
"How can he continue to work knowing what's to come?" asks the first.
"He visits his brother often, so I cover for him whenever I can," says the second.
"You aren't there now?" asks the first.
"No. I have family business of my own," replies the second.
"Then we best hope the doctor doesn't learn of his desertion," says the first.
"He wont, long as you stay silent," says the second.
"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," says the first.
Altaïr rose and walked away.
He climbed a nearby tower, stone yielding easily beneath practiced hands. From its height, he studied the city—guard routes, districts, patterns of movement. Acre unfolded before him, each path memorized, each weakness noted.
When he was done, he stepped forward and leapt.
He vanished into a pile of leaves below with impossible precision.
At the Assassin bureau, the Rafiq wasted no time.
From him, Altaïr learned his next target: Garnier de Naplouse, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, who kept his quarters within their district.
"There is a public garden east of here and also an abandoned market northwest of here, and Maria of Jahosaphet's church to the west remains a popular gathering spot. These three locations should suffice," says the Rafiq.
Altaïr nodded and turned to leave.
Before beginning his search, he sought out a messenger. He tied a letter to a pigeon leg and and let it fly.
With that, Altair began his search for the next target.